Snow and Mistletoe
by lembas7
Summary: . . . and presents, on the tree. ECverse Christmas snapshots, 1994.
1. Lucy Pevensie

**Disclaimer:** Dear Santa, for Christmas, I would like to own all this, but if that's too much to ask, could I just have the DVDs instead?

**A/N:** ECverse, a Christmas story taking place in 1994. Each chapter is a snapshot of a character on Christmas Eve. No, BWT, SAS & TQW haven't caught up to this yet. Yes, I'm terrible. Let's talk New Years' Resolutions, shall we?

**Summary: **. . . and presents, on the tree.

* * *

><p>SNOW AND MISTLETOE<p>

The fire was warm. Golden light flowed from the hearth, glowing in the dark common room of what had come to be known as Pevensie Tower. Curled on the couch under a thick afghan, Lucy yawned.

There was a small potted evergreen, lovingly decorated by Susan, beside her. Susan, back with her family for Christmas for the first time in years. It was a gift great enough that her heart's longing to be home at the Mansion was faint rather than sharp. The packages tucked beneath the tiny tree glimmered in the faint light thrown off by glowing embers.

Settled in the corner, their entirely Muggle clock ticked closer to Christmas, accompanied by the soft crackling of their Yule-log.

She was waiting.

It wasn't so very late, though the early darkness of winter made it seem so. Tonight her eyes were weighted with exhaustion from chaperoning Hogwarts' Yule Ball. The memories, only a few hours old, made her smile.

Peter, clad in burgundy and brown, golden hair shining in the candlelight as he twirled Susan about the floor, her forest-green gown sweeping across shining marble. Edmund dancing with her, his shirt a silvered blue that reminded Lucy of their coronation. Her own dress, white trimmed with gold for the winter around them, turning both her and Edmund into snowflakes whirling through the masses of brightly-colored children. And then, linking hands with her siblings and joining the chain made by all the people present – Susan pulling Severus into the dance as he tried to hide behind the teachers' table; Edmund urging Rolanda Hooch to join the fun; grabbing Hagrid's hand herself as Peter persuaded Madame Maxime to fall into step.

She felt the night ache in her feet and legs and arms, but Lucy held the memories close. Christmas was near, and she could stay awake a little longer.

* * *

><p><strong>AN2:** _Next up, the Channesy Family. Is there anyone in the ECverse you'd like to see on Christmas? Prompt me! (Otherwise this little adventure's going to end in three days at a total of four short little chapter-snippets!) I'll pretty much write anyone you ask for except for a few characters whose 1994 Christmas is going to be dealt with in "Written in White Stone," another prospective WIP with actual plot. _


	2. The Channesy Family

"Is she asleep?"

Amanda smiled at him, joy and exhaustion in her dark eyes as she nodded. One slender hand soothed their daughter's hair back from her face. Amanda bent, pressing a kiss to Melissa's forehead. The other curved under the swell of her stomach, already rounding and full with their second child.

Rob bent to kiss their little girl, and wrapped a careful arm around his wife. Together they left the room, easing quietly down carpeted stairs in the darkness. Amanda stopped at the kitchen, wand flicking the stovetop to life beneath a cheery red kettle. Rob continued into the garage, shivering in the sudden chill. His breath billowed out in front of him.

It was the work of a minute to shift aside the self-propelled grass-cutter, and the rack that held his and Amanda's old broomsticks. The hidden door blended perfectly with the wall, only an off-color nail marking where the keyhole was. Rob crouched a little to whisper a password against the nail, and a roughly person-sized hole faded away in front of him. Just inside the door rested a ragged sack of packages, bulky and interesting.

Rob hefted the bundle of presents out of the crawlspace and sidled through the door, turning sideways to fit into the narrow space. Hooks and shelves lined both walls of the tiny room, stretching the width of the garage. He was at the far end within five steps, reaching high onto a shelf tucked against the end of the room.

Fingers searched, running over dirt and a few rusted odds'n'ends before hitting smooth paper around a slim box.

Within a minute Rob was out of the freezing room, sack of packages held out before him and Amanda's gift tucked safely in one pocket as the secret room's door shimmered back into place. A wave of his wand returned the rack of brooms and grass-cutter to their places and he went back into the house, closing the garage door firmly behind him. The kitchen was warm, and smelled of apples and cinnamon.

Amanda was waiting for him in the living room, settled on a thick cushion by the tree. Evergreen boughs filled a corner of the room, more squat than tall this year. Their daughter had been overexcited when they decorated, and as a result there were still strands of gold tinsel stuck in the carpet. His wife held out a red mug to him, and Rob settled the bag of presents to one side, reaching out with a grateful hand.

"I love you," he murmured, sinking down to settle at her side and taking a sip of the hot cider.

Amanda leant against him, soft and smelling gently of lavender. "I love you too."

In a moment they would spread the presents in the bag under the tree for their daughter to find in the morning; they would exchange their own gifts and kiss in front of the twinkling lights brightening their dark living room.

Rob breathed deep in the quiet peace of his home, his wife and their second child warm in his arms, the tart sweetness of apples on his tongue. Christmas would come soon enough; in this moment, he was happy.


	3. The Granger Family

Heather was sitting in her kitchen, wrapped in a woolen shawl to ward off the chill. The lone light overhead cast stark shadows in the corners by cherry cabinets. Her eyes rested on three heavy bronzed coins, scattered atop that morning's paper.

"What are you still doing up?"

She looked up from her hands, knotted tightly together on the kitchen table. "I'm waiting for Hermione's letter. She said she'd send one after the ball tonight."

"Honey," Ian settled down across from her, setting her mug of cold tea to one side and resting his hands gently atop hers. "She's at a dance. It's late, and she's tired. I'm sure she'll write us first thing in the morning."

"She promised," Heather smiled into her husband's blue eyes. "And you know how Hermione is with promises. I didn't want to leave one of those poor birds outside on the sill all night. It's looking like snow."

Ian laughed tiredly, swiping a hand over his face. "Yes, Hermione and her promises. Can I reheat this for you?" He picked up the cold mug, and shoved it further across the pale wood table when his wife shook her head.

"She had a date tonight," Heather said suddenly.

Ian growled, pressing at the back of his neck – the first part of him to cramp with stress. "Don't remind me."

"He seems like a nice boy."

"He's a professional athlete. You know what those kinds of boys are like, with girls hanging all over them."

"Ian, it's Christmas," Heather chided. "Be kind. Besides, Hermione's got a good head on her shoulders."

"I don't doubt that. It's those boys that worry me. She's only fourteen. Give me one good reason a seventeen-year-old wouldn't prefer someone his own age!"

"We gave him permission to take her to the ball, when he wrote us," Heather reminded him gently.

"Of course we did," Ian grumped. "It's what Hermione wanted. If I had my way, she wouldn't start dating until she turned thirty. That's a nice, reasonable age."

Heather couldn't hold in her laughter. "Heaven's sake, Ian!"

_Tap-tap-tap._

"There!" she said triumphantly, rising and taking two steps to the window. "What did I tell you?"

A blast of cold air rushed in as she twisted the latch, pulling glass panes open. A moment later a tumble of feathers almost fell into the room, hooting in irritation. Heather slammed the window shut, chafing her fingers for warmth. The night had turned bitter and crisp; snow was in the air.

Ian was already offering the bird some warm water and a bit of shortbread, which it indelicately gobbled up. The creature fluffed its feathers, perched on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

By now more than accustomed to Wizarding post, Heather quickly exchanged coin for parchment. And grumble as her husband might about feathers and droppings, when the bird hunkered down rather than making for the window, Ian muttered something about having bacon the next morning for their 'guest.'

As she broke the seal, a polaroid fell out from between two sheaves of parchment, and Heather held it up to get a better look. The boy was tall and hulking, but the scowl drawing down his dark brows over a once-broken nose lightened when he looked at Hermione. _Oh, my little girl._ "She's beautiful."

"She looks like you," Ian murmured. "Remember your sister's wedding?"

Heather hummed in agreement, but she saw more of her husband in Hermione's features - her hair color was certainly Ian's, as was the set of her chin.

Their daughter was wearing a floaty periwinkle dress, slender and feminine. Brown-blond locks that usually tangled into a frizzy mess – Hermione always had more pressing things to think about than her hair – were smooth and silken, expertly coiffed with a few luxuriant, dangling curls. Heather sighed with happiness, and a little curiosity. "I wonder what she had to do to get her hair to look like that."

Ian quirked a smile her way. "It must be magic."

She loved this man, who could make her laugh so easily. Heather unfolded the parchment, and they sat beside one another as they had every year since their daughter had started boarding school, reading the letter aloud.

Perhaps they weren't together this Christmas. But they loved one another, and that was everything.


	4. Victor Krum

The ship rocked quietly in the freezing night.

While it was never so cold as Durmstrang, hidden in the crisp iciness of the North, Hogwarts was still colder than his native Belgium. Victor leant against the heavy wood of the starboard railing, looking up for the stars.

Clouds loomed, ready to block the moon and much of the sky, casting the night itself into shadow.

_Snow, perhaps._

He would wait and see.

Warmth from the Yule Ball still lingered in him, underneath thick furs that blocked the winter winds. He had missed the _koleduvane_ the others had planned, as not many of his fellows had decided to go to the Hogwarts ball. They had returned from Hogsmeade much earlier, curiously poking over the warmed chestnuts and odd British coins they had received in trade for their songs.

There was little truly familiar here in Britain, but some things that were close enough. The Hogsmeade witches and wizards had called the _kolezhdani_ 'carolers,' so there was apparently a similar tradition.

Homesickness struck, weighting his heart like a stone, and Victor's eyes slid shut. To be home, where he would not have to fumble with language and be thought a dullard, or navigate strange foods with occasionally unpleasant results. Where he could see his _moeder_, and visit his _papa_'s grave, and celebrate _kolyada_ with his cousins, aunts and uncles.

He had gone straight from training and travelling and the Cup to school, with no time at all to stop home. He had not seen his _moeder_ in almost seven months, and letters were not the same.

A brisk gust slapped across his face, and Victor turned his face out of the wind, toward the moon. The crisp of the night was familiar in the midst of all that was not – harsh to the lungs and brutally refreshing. He drew a breath deep, relishing the shocking cold. Victor held the breath tight in his lungs, feeling it warm from his body, and released it in a violent plume to be swirled away by the night. Voices carried to him from belowdecks, a sudden burst of laughter cutting through the darkness. Soon he would go below, get a mug of _greyano vino_ with his classmates and trade stories of _kolyada_ past.

But the snow was coming; clouds slow and thick on the horizon, heavy against the stars, and the others would wait.

* * *

><p><strong>AN2:** A few definitions._  
>Kolyada<em>: the ancient Slavic winter ritual, since incorporated into Christmas._  
>Koleduvane<em>: Bulgarian tradition of young boys wandering around singing during the winter celebration. Essentially, "Caroling"_  
>Kolezhdani<em>: the word for the young boys who go around singing the songs in wintertime; essentially, the "carolers"_  
>Moeder<em>: mother_  
>Papa<em>: father_  
>Greyano vino<em>: heated wine


	5. Jesse Oliver Aarons

"Merry Christmas!"

Jesse laughed, blinking down at the small mirror in his hands. May Belle waved at him from one half of it, bright face grinning in the multi-colored light from the tree behind her. Voices burst from the blue compact, faces whirling dizzily by as May Belle flashed the mirror around the room far too quickly.

"Whoa!" Jesse cried, unable to keep the grin from his face. "I'mma be sick – slow down, May Belle!"

"Okay, okay," she giggled, the sound traveling clearly all the way from America. "We just finished dinner -"

"What'd'ja have?" Jesse interrupted, smirking. "Roast beast!" he chorused along with his sister – an inside joke that had cropped up back when he'd just started high school, and had somehow managed to survive even years later.

"An' here's Brenda an' Willard an' Clyde an' Denise – say hi, everyone!" May Belle turned the mirror slowly around the room, and Jesse could see his sister smiling uncomfortably, her husband's grin tight and equally unsettled. His nephew and niece, though, were hamming up to the mirror, prodding and poking and shouting at it in curious delight. The image juddered as May Belle wrestled the compact mirror from small, sticky fingers. "An' Ellie an' her fiancé, this is Christopher."

"Nice to meet you," Jesse said politely.

The brown-haired man on the other side of the mirror didn't blink; he must be more familiar with magic than most of the Aarons family. "Good to meet you too."

"An' movin' right along – Momma and Daddy -"

Jesse waved and smiled, catching genuine smiles on his parents' faces as the mirror was passed to each of them. Momma pressed a kiss to her fingers, and tapped it to the mirror's surface. Jesse returned the movement, and his father gave him a solemn nod.

May Belle appropriated the mirror again, as the image jiggled a bit and then focused on the twinkling Christmas tree, sneaking through the branches until Jesse caught a glimpse of his littlest sister coyly pinning some mistletoe on her sweater and leaning in towards a young man he didn't recognize.

"An' here's Joyce Ann an' her new beau – what's this one's name, Joycie?"

Joyce Ann jumped, and squealed at May Belle and the mirror. "Ooooh, you!"

"Girls," came their father's voice, stern and unyielding.

Joyce Ann stuck her tongue out at the both of them, and grabbed the boy's hand, towing him along behind her as she pushed by May Belle. "Come on, Brendan."

Jesse heard May Belle's snicker clearly.

"Where's Frank?" he asked, as soon as the mirror turned around, and May Belle started pretending to fix her hair.

"He'll be here for dessert," his sister grinned, but there was a little strain around the edges. "He had to work."

There was someone nearby who could hear them on her end, then.

Jesse shifted in the ridiculously huge, wing-backed velvet chair pulled up next to the fireplace in his rooms. The lamps were well-lit, and the garland tucked over the mantle was giving off the fresh scent of evergreen. The house-elves had promised Jesse it had been enchanted to be fireproof, after he'd tried to insist on getting rid of it when it first appeared.

"It'll be alright, May Belle," he said quietly.

_"Who's ready for pie?"_

_ "Oooh! Me!"_

_ "I am!"_

_ "Pie, Anellie, pie!"_ screamed Denice in the background, following her brother's example and mashing 'Aunt Ellie' into one word.

"I'll be there in a minute," May Belle told Momma, who was visible as an arm and surprisingly quiet voice passing by as the rest of the family moved back to the dining room for dessert.

"How's schooling?" Jesse tried instead.

May Belle's laugh was a little teary. "Good, Jesse, s'real good." She took a deep breath, blinking hard. She leant in close to the mirror to whisper. "I love 'im, Jess. I really do."

"'Course you do," he said, a lot more calmly than he felt. "I saw that comin' miles off."

"Funny," she snarked back, taking a shuddery breath. "I didn't. See it, I mean."

Jesse sat back in the chair, letting her measure each inhalation for a bit before he spoke. "Love can be like that, I think, May Belle. Creeps up on you 'til you can't live without it, but half the time you never realize it's there. 'Til you do."

_"May Belle! Hurry up, girl, or there's gonna be no pie left!"_

"I gotta go," she smiled at him, sniffling a little, but there were no tears to be seen. "You know how they are, worse'n a ravagin' horde."

"Momma's pie's the best," Jesse agreed. "Eat a piece for me, an' if Brenda complains, you tell her I said she don't need no more pie."

May Belle stood, the living room shifting behind her as she moved. "C'n I call you after dessert? It won't be too late for you?"

"Nah," Jesse shrugged, shooting a glance at his window. "Looks like snow, n'I think I wanna stay up for a bit an' see if it is."

"'Kay. I'll talk t'ya soon. Love ya." The kiss went from lips to fingers to mirror, and Jesse copied her, sending a kiss the only way he could.

"Love you too, May Belle."

The mirror went dark as she closed it, and Jesse closed his own, settling it on the arm of the huge chair. He pulled his feet up, curling tight against worn blue velvet, and leant his head back to look up at the rounded window peering down at him like a great eye. The room was suddenly silent, shut off from the noise of his parents' living room, and the crackling of the fire too faint to fill it.

But the snow was coming, and not even Momma's pie would keep May Belle from calling back for more'n fifteen minutes. It wasn't quite Christmas in England just yet, but Jesse didn't have long to wait.


	6. Severus Snape

_I hate teenagers_.

Lips pulled back from his teeth, Severus scrubbed at the potions laboratory's heavy stone countertops.

_So much._

It was thick and tacky, each large spatter clinging stubbornly wherever it had landed after the initial explosion. It was completely resistant to scouring charms, and none of the solvents he'd tested had had an appreciable effect. It was dark evergreen and smelled like pine, except where it was deep red scented with cinnamon, and it was_ all over his classroom._

A fat drop of icy water landed squarely on his head from the icicles dangling above.

Severus snarled.

Detention had yet to have any appreciable effect on the Weasley twins, but it just might quell the group of second-year Ravenclaws responsible for the worse part of the mess. _If not for this year's annual foolishness, I'd be long done by now._

But instead, he'd been chaperoning hormone-ridden students and trapped into dancing with Rolanda of all people, while the mess splattered across his dungeons had congealed into tar and the hundreds of icicles fused to the ceiling melted, cracked, and smashed to the floor. His sanctuary was a Christmas-themed warzone.

Arm burning, fingers clenched tight around a wire scouring brush, Severus leant the whole of his weight against the scented glop and growled.

_Snap!_

Pain smacked into his side as the brush unexpectedly gave way, spilling him unceremoniously against the edge of the stone countertop. Panting, he stared in disbelief at the brush's wooden handle, snapped clean in two. _This is not happening._

Nearly midnight, Christmas Eve, and –

He could hear something.

Beyond the noise of his own furious, heaving lungs, a sound drifted through the dungeon door – propped open to dissipate the nearly-overwhelming odor of pine.

It was a voice, but he couldn't . . . quite . . .

_A student out after curfew._

Rage blanking out everything else, Severus burst out of the dungeons, pausing just long enough to pick the most likely direction based on the faint echoes.

Halfway down the hallway, the strangely haunting murmur resolved into words.

_" – Lord of all the Earth sent Angel choirs instead –"_

It was a girl, and she was singing.

Low, and somehow mournful for what must be a carol of some sort. Severus followed the stairs upward to the main level of the castle, emerging into a back hallway that was completely empty of anyone, singing or not.

_"Before their light, the stars grew dim –"_

It was louder. Severus kept his feet quiet against the flagstones; he was going the right way. And he was going to heap detention on whatever idiot was stupid enough to break curfew and then _sing_ about it. Even if he'd never heard the song before.

_" – your King is born –"_

The music faded abruptly as Severus sped past a hallway lit only by tall windows, and he quickly backtracked.

_"In Excelsis Gloria . . ." _

_There._

"You!" Severus snapped, registering with satisfaction the way the girl leaning against the windowsill started in shock. "What are you doing out after –" She turned to face him, snow-bright moonlight illuminating her face, and his voice died. "Curfew," Severus finished weakly. "Susan."

"Severus." Blue eyes took him in, skimming over lank, dripping hair, past disheveled robes with sleeves rolled-up to reveal hands chapped and reddened with scrubbing, and down to the ratty slippers on his feet. Which were embroidered with glinting Christmas trees, because Albus had a fondness for both sentimental touches on practical gifts, and the absurd. "I can see you're getting into the holiday spirit."

Anyone else would have been mocking; she was only gently teasing.

His tension slipped down a notch, entirely involuntarily. "It is the season of giving," he agreed, sneering elegantly.

Her laughter reminded him of low-chiming bells. "I don't think detention is quite what they had in mind."

The silence between them was comfortable; Severus leant against the freezing windowsill opposite Susan, and made a show of looking outside. The moon was full and radiant, peeking eagerly through clouds swirling with the promise of snow. "How's your family?" he said awkwardly, the holiday and company making him try for social niceties on which he rarely wasted time. _Why aren't you with them?_ was what he wouldn't ask, though he wanted to.

Susan stiffened. As usual, she heard what he meant rather than what he said, and for once, looking at shoulders strung tight under a thick fall of black hair, Severus wasn't glad for it. "Lucy fell asleep waiting for the snow, but Ed will probably wake her up soon. Peter's around somewhere."

"Ah." Severus cleared his throat uncomfortably, shifting on his feet.

"And you've been cleaning," she continued, smoothing over his discomfort.

"Mm," Severus nodded. "I – heard you. Singing," he blurted out.

She just nodded, unconcerned; but blue eyes gazed solidly out onto the castle lawn.

"It was nice," he heard himself say, and froze, horrified. _Where did _that_ come from?_ He kept his own eyes firmly fixed out the window, taking in the cold glint of moonlight off the distant lake.

When he darted a glance sideways, Susan's cheeks had pinked. "Thank you."

After a few false starts, Severus got out, "I didn't mean to make you stop."

"Oh." Susan had that gift, though – of knowing him well enough to somehow know what his intent was, though he could never speak it. Comfort crept back into the silence between them, and with it, came a joyful noise.

She sang.

He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and listened.

_"The earliest moon of wintertime is not so round and fair, as was the ring of glory on the helpless infant there. The chiefs from far before him knelt, with gifts of fox and beaver pelt – Jesus, your King is born! Jesus is born! In Excelsis Gloria!"_

Beyond frost-limned glass, the first flakes drifted down out of a starry night sky.


	7. Brett Bixby

Beyond frost-limned glass, the first flakes drifted down out of a starry night sky.

"Bixby! Wake _up_, mate!"

Someone thumped him in the shoulder, and Brett groaned. "M'sleepin'. G'way."

"It's snowing! Get your arse out of bed!"

He pulled the covers up higher, and snuggled into puffy down. "Don' care."

"Ugh, you're such a wet blanket!"

"Mmm. Blanket . . ." Brett sighed, rubbing his face happily into the softness of his pillow. _Sleep._ His body jerked as the covers surrounding him were brutally yanked, dragging him halfway to the foot of his four-poster. "Yaaah!"

Chris snickered, and twisted the rest of the sheets and comforter sideways onto the floor.

Huddled in a ball to keep from freezing, Brett growled. "Prat. It's _cold_."

"It's _snowing_," Chris corrected him, smugly snug in pyjamas, robe and slippers. "So _get up_."

"Who cares?" Brett groaned, uncurling long enough to grab his glasses.

His best friend actually froze in his tracks to gape at him. "Who _cares_? _Who cares_?! It's snowing on Christmas Eve and we've been locked up in our common room all day while the upper years get to go to an honest-to-Merlin _ball_, and he wants to know _who cares_?!" Chris threw his hands into the air. "You're so daft!"

"We haven't been _locked up_," Brett stuffed chilly toes into his slippers to escape the freezing stone floor.

"It's _hyperbole_. For _emphasis_."

"It's late, is what it is."

Chris's head went sideways, the way it sometimes did when he was thinking. "What's wrong with you, then?"

"You _do_ remember I don't give a fig 'bout Christmas? I'm _Jewish_. Hanukkah was almost a month ago."

Chris' mouth opened, jaw moving soundlessly before it snapped shut. "Right."

_He forgot._ Brett dug at his blankets, now a twisted pile at the foot of his bed. "Ravenclaw, smartest of them all. Who let _you_ in?"

"Oi!" The punch to one shoulder wasn't entirely unexpected. "Forget the whole Christmas lark, then, if you're determined to raise a stink about it. Still the first snow of winter, and the house-elves brought us hot chocolate!"

"Don't like snow," Brett felt bound to point out. Finally succeeding in freeing a fleece blanket, he swirled it around himself in an impromptu robe.

"Hot chocolate!" Chris was bouncing around, looking for all the world like he'd already had more than his share of it. "You like that, though, right?"

Brett shivered, hunkering down in his blanket. He eyed the four-poster, considering. "Not enough to get out of bed for it."

"Then it's lucky you're already out of bed, isn't it?"

_Not for long I'm not. _"If I drink the cocoa, can I go back to sleep?"

"Don't be such a plonker," said Chris decisively, grabbing the edge of his blanket and towing him towards the steps. "We're playing Exploding Snap."

Hands trapped in an effort to keep warm fleece wrapped tight around him, Brett groaned. "It's got to be almost midnight. _Why_ are you torturing me?"

Chris chortled, hauling him down the spiral staircase to the common room. "Think of it as your Christmas gift to me. And you don't even have to spend any money on it!"

"You're the soul of generosity," Brett muttered sourly as their slippered feet sank into midnight-blue carpet at the bottom of the steps. _At least he went slowly._

"Come on." Chris waved a hand around at the many large, vaulted windows spanning the tower's circular walls. "You can't tell me that's not bloody awesome."

The Ravenclaw common room was open and airy, its windows deep and so wide that the stone supports for the domed room interrupted what would otherwise be unbroken walls of glass. Thick cushions in blue and ivory plumped over the deep stone benches underlying each window. The tower was high enough that the Ravenclaws had views of Forbidden Forest, Quidditch pitch, Herbology gardens, and even the mountains beyond the lake.

_Not that you can see any of that now . . . _

Brett stepped closer to his favorite window, overlooking the Quidditch pitch and the mountains. Darkness had shaded the world in blacks and grays. But the cloud cover wasn't enough to completely block the moon, and a pale crescent peeped out over the castle, limning the shadows in silver. _Wow_.

The snow had only just started falling, but against the golden glow that emanated from the Great Hall below, Brett could see each flake. Already, the ground had a cover thick enough that all but the tips of the grass was obscured.

It looked clean, and peaceful. But when he gazed straight out, straining for a glimpse of the mountains, the ground was utterly forgettable.

_. . . We're floating in the middle of a snowstorm._ "Okay, fine, you're right, it's amazing."

"Told ya," Chris nudged him with one elbow, holding out a stack of cards. "C'mon."

Mugs of cocoa steamed gently from a small table set close to the deep window-seat. Grabbing one, Brett scooted back against the cushions, watching Chris's deck self-shuffle as his friend settled opposite him.

The cards scrambled themselves a moment longer, gathered together, then split, flicking speedily out until a small pile had accumulated in front of each of them. _Patience it is, then._

Chris grabbed his pile, and smirked. "Ready?"

A chill shivered off the glass of the window to his side, kept at bay by the crackling fire across the common room. Cocoa in one hand, cards in the other, Brett grinned back. "Yeah."


	8. Aberforth Dumbledore

The flakes were coming down faster now, waltzing through the wind and sticking to the ground in a glittery white sheen. _There must be near to seven centimeters already_, Aberforth mused. Shepherd's staff leading, he strode up the steep hillside.

Crunchy cold slipped over the sides of his low house-shoes, an icy slush lying against his skin and making his toes curl. "Billy Billy Billy," he called, raising his voice to be heard over the swirling wind. "Billy!"

A chorus of unhappy bleats reached him over the noise of falling snow.

Tugging his robes tighter, Aberforth padded through bitter freeze slapping against his face, grumbling. "- warming charm on the feet, he says. Keeps the old dogs toasty, he says. No mention how slow it works, no, none of that. So it melts and you're walking through ice-cold water, instead – now wet and cold instead of just cold. Snow, you can brush off."

_Baa-aaaa!_

Resentful brown and blue eyes stared up at him from the huddle of shivering goats.

"Well, if you hadn't run off," he scolded quietly. _One, two, three . . . _"There's a nice warm shed waiting for you. Why run halfway up the mountain away from it?"

_Baaa-aaaaa! Baaa-aaaa!_

Circling the small cluster of hircines, Aberforth blinked. "Oh. Of course. I'll certainly make time to fix it, but it's going to have to wait for tomorrow." _Seven, eight –_

_Baaa-aaaaaa!_

"Don't whinge. You sound like sheep, you know."

That got him a few affronted looks; the black-and-white billy tottered close and began to chomp vengefully on one of his house-shoes. _Eleven, twelve. Lovely._ Aberforth shook his foot. "None of that, now."

_Thunk thunk thunk!_

The herd skittered at the dull noise of his staff impacting the ground. Heads came up, eyes on him as if he had a nice piece of pumpkin, or husk of corn. "It's at the shed, dearies. Come along, now."

A quick wave of the crook at the back of the herd got them moving, delicate hooves kicking up little sprays of white. _Ariana would love this._

Not the lights and noise of Yuletide; sudden lights and sound had startled her, fear pushing her magic into something she couldn't control, making her angry and compounding the problem, always. _To her death._

_Damn you, Albus._

A quick wave of the staff kept the little group of goats together through the growing cold, each one sure-footed as he slipped down the mountainside towards the glowing lights of Hogsmeade.

_But the goats, the lightly falling snow, and the moon above playing hide-and-seek? _

Wind bit at Aberforth's face, freezing the wetness in the corners of his eyes. Slush inside his house-shoes numbed the bottoms of his feet and pinched at his toes.

_Should have kept the Hog's Head open later, Christmas or no._

But for once the bar was bare and cold, and it wasn't fair on the goats for him to take his temper into the bar and leave it there. They didn't deserve to be hungry because of his foul mood.

The shed, attached to the back of his house, appeared as he rounded the side of the mountain. Sensing home, little hooves beat faster, a chorus of excited _baaa-aaaa!_s trailing behind them as they ran. They reached the fence and raced along it, searching for the gate.

A smile twitched Aberforth's lips, completely against his will; he hid behind his beard. "Smell the goodies, do you?"

_Baaa-aaaa! Baaaa-aaaaa! Baaa-aaaa!_

He was swarmed upon reaching the gate. Warm little bodies, and a few larger ones, pressed against his legs. Someone was even bold enough to rear up for a moment, cloven hooves making a gentle impact against his ribs before he nudged the impertinent beast down. "No, Comet, you greedy creature. Caramel, move out of the way, now."

Wand tapping at the lock, Aberforth picked his robes clear of the herd as the gate swung wide. He was nearly stampeded down regardless, long legs the only thing saving him from a rush of hair and horns. The gate closed with a gentle _thwack!_ behind him, staff urging the last of his goats into the shed proper.

The ripe reek of dung and urine met him at the shed's entrance, pungent on the heat generated by a dozen little bodies.

He stepped inside, wand drawing a sliding door closed against the wind and snow. One section of hay looked a little less well-used than the rest; Aberforth shoved his staff across the shed's low rafters and sat, hands reaching out to run over the nearest animals.

Noses deep in their trough, horns pushing each other playfully, the goats ignored him. Aberforth snorted.

It was this, or the chilly little house filled with portraits of those he loved, and would never see again this side of life. He infinitely preferred the goats.

_I hate Christmas._


End file.
